


Unrequited and Madly in Love

by EternityCode



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Smut, Blood and Torture, Daddy Issues, Dark Castiel, Dehumanization, Dirty Talk, Filthy and Twisted, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Oral Sex, Punishment, Rough Sex, Stockholm Syndrome, Underage Sex, Unrequited Love, Verbal Humiliation, Very Dubious Consent, Violence, alternative universe, tags and warnings will not be updated for chapters three four and five
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-07 07:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17956178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternityCode/pseuds/EternityCode
Summary: Sam Winchester runs away from home one night, fleeing from his drunk father. In all of his misery and all of the rain, a man in a beige trench coat offers him kindness at a bus stop and he jumps the first love train he sees. Eventually, their meetings escalate and Sam cuts ties with his father, following the man (called Castiel) down the yellow brick road. There, he discovers that it's not what is seems and the boy begins to hate and fear but finds himself unable to leave. The silence becomes too loud and Sam just wants to be in love, reassures himself that he's still madly in love because he has no other option. He finds himself with two hands in pain, knows that Castiel's taking advantage of him but he can't care anymore. It doesn't matter that their love isn't traditional. Castiel will return his feelings one day, Sam just has to be patient the way Bonnie waits for Clyde.





	1. His Love

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags.

The morning air is chilly, running up Sam's naked back and straight into his spine. Hazel eyes blink open, too wide for any signs of sleep. There's dark circles beneath them and when long lashes flutter and it only makes the image more despairing. The boy lets out a pitiful whimper, quickly bringing his hand up to his lips to silent the sound. The floor is cold and the chain around his ankle is getting too heavy again but Sam can take that. He can't take the pins and needles going into his legs—asleep, the only party that shouldn't be sleeping—and tries to dispatch the discomfort. Peering up cautiously at the bed where Castiel is snoring, he holds his breath. Sam's careful not to make any noise when he shifts to a sitting position, cringing when the chain drags across the floor. The boy looks up nervously as if the man might lash out. He doesn't and the boy relaxes, muscles losing some of its tension. It's a crime to wake Castiel. Sam learns that the hard way. It's also a crime to complain so he keeps the words in, looking longingly up at the soft covers and bed sheets and the nice looking pillow.

The floor seems less forgiving with every second.

His body is marred with bruises but his face is kept presentable and pretty. The belt welts are a good reminder from last night and Sam curls in on himself like it'll protect from the cold gushing in his stomach. It doesn't, his actions involuntary. He really does love Castiel, the man who saves him from a monster of a father. It's a runaway love story that no one understands. Sam just needs to keep reminding himself that Castiel has his limits too. Castiel is patient with him and he's such a freak, Sam knows he is and he should be so much more than just thankful. Right now though, Sam needs to apologize. He misses the soft bed and nice food, loathes the hardwood floor and extra chains. He wants to hear the words “sweet boy” again. The words that have been dragging along his feet for the last two weeks haven't been easy or kind. “Stupid whore,” follows him wherever he goes. More than anything, he misses Castiel's warmth and touch. Solitary confinement makes for poor conversation.

Sam reminds himself how happy he is that he's out of the basement.

He hushes his own complaints and takes to the wood floor gratefully.

He feels bad that he makes Castiel do these things. He just wants to be good. He remembers the first time they meet. It's a cold night and Sam avoids the rain under a bus stop. There's bruises on him; ugly, blue, black and yellow. His lip is split and tears are in his eyes, his nose runny and his heart bleeding. No one turns back and spares him a second glance but the man in the yellow trench coat kneels down and takes his frozen hands into his own; doesn't mind his filthy blood, or freakish nature. He bandages him and buys him a hotel room for the night because he can't go home. He checks for monsters under Sam's bed (like he's not too old for it), gives him a little kiss to top it all off. The touches are gentle and kind and Sam breathes it in like a man without air. That's the first time his heart jolts alive. Sam's just thankful Castiel doesn't abandon him—terrifying thought, _please_ don't leave—or kick him out or sell him or dump his body. Eventually, Sam finds out there's plenty more just like him and he realizes he isn't special. His heart's a mess. He's a sobbing mess. He cries until he just dissolves.

Castiel tells him that he's the only one who gets to sleep in his bed occasionally, gets hand-fed occasionally and gets praised occasionally. He also reminds him that Sam is one of the few who gets to leave the basement. Sam will do anything to not go back because he _loves_ —Castiel is his only world, he'd rather die than be alone—and love is a skittish, fragile thing. It breaks too easily like his heart and he promises over and over again. He just wants to feel that high again and he'll do anything to avoid the low. One time, Castiel ties him up and whips him until he's incoherent, gets tired of his whimpering and gags him, keeps at it until Sam thinks he might die. It's well worth the pain. Sam will never forget that smile when Castiel holds him close and tells him how proud he is of his sweet boy. He has weak ankles and weak knees. He falls and Castiel catches him. Sam thinks his heart might just explode. It's a violent bloom of happiness that only he has claims to. He lets Castiel do what he wants and he just leans back for the ride. It takes weeks for his body to heal but only a mere second for his heart. For the simple price love, he only has to let go.

If Castiel whores him out right now, he won't have enough fight in him to complain (it's been done already). If that's what Castiel wants, Sam will do it. If Castiel tells Sam to drink cyanide, he'll do it. He's just so lonely and the man knows he hates solitary confinement too much for his own good. Sam always ends up begging, crying and whimpering but Castiel enjoys the show. He loves Castiel so much, he's already given his mind and body. The boy doesn't know what else to give but he just knows he wants to give more. He loves the way that Castiel says “I know,” when Sam proclaims his love like a mantra. There's an emptiness inside that only Castiel can fill figuratively. More than just Castiel, literally. But Sam doesn't mind, just wants Castiel to hold his hand and give back the kisses he withholds now. Every time they fuck, Sam feels. The sex is nothing compared to his too-tight heart in too-tight ribs. The act doesn't do much for him, but Castiel's approval and love, it's better than sex. It's a hit he needs all the time. He floats above the cloud nine when it peaks and drops dead harder than his father when it's all over. He always craves it until he needs it.

Every time they fuck, Sam feels more than just a piece of himself being driven out. It goes beyond guts and intestines and blood and flesh. He loses his mind waiting for the fuzzy warmth to set in, until he's looking through water and loving and _loving_ and just so goddamn in love. Castiel never tells him he loves him but Sam knows he's special to some degree. Sam can feel it, just because the man doesn't say it, doesn't mean he doesn't returns his feelings. There was this one time, an awful time. Castiel ties him down, offers him as a party favor as he takes it up both ends, begging because they want him to beg and crying because Castiel wants to see him cry. It was all going fine until he tears. He doesn't remember when or how, just a time between losing feeling in his limbs and falling asleep from exhaustion, it happens. There's a sharp, white-hot poker in his ass and he vaguely remembers that the dick before hadn't pulled out. He's being double penetrated with no prior experience or preparation. He can't scream behind the gag, can't move an inch, all by design.

They don't even realize anything's off until the whine in his throat is sharp and high like a beaten dog's. It's muffled by the gag but the message goes through. Gasping, panting and crying, he's cut from the stand and tossed onto a familiar bed. Left in the dark until the men leave, he can't even think. It hurts, _it hurts._ When Castiel (finally) comes back to his side, he's breathless and wheezing. Silent tears caress his sharp cheekbones. Castiel hushes him, holds Sam close and bathes the boy himself, all gentle and tentative. The shampoo is blissful. Sam doesn't forgive him because he's never needed forgiveness to begin. It's a simple accident and Sam's just glad it's over. He tells Castiel that he loves him. Castiel tells him he knows, calls him a sweet boy. He allows Sam to sleep on his bed that night. It's a little piece of paradise and Sam holds onto the memory, cherishing it. The high is delicious. Getting soaked in love is beautiful. Beautifully violent and explosive. Everything that he needs because his Daddy's right, he is just a freak that needs to be put down. Somewhere between here and there, Sam discovers that he's not a sucker for pain.

This is Castiel's way of showing his love, Sam doesn't care that it's not traditional.

He doesn't care that others don't understand.

He's ripped out of his memory and the coldness of the floor comes back to him, sucking the warmth from his fingertips. Castiel is beginning to stir on the bed above him and Sam waits silently, obediently until Castiel pushes messy dark hair out of his handsome features. The boy can't breathe when sea-blue eyes stare back into his and it takes him a whole three seconds to remember. He quickly drops his gaze but he can already taste the smile on the man's face. He curses himself for being so careless when a hand holds the side of his face gently and Sam shivers in Castiel's grip. He prepares for the cruel backhand but it never comes. The man drags him forward until he grabs the boy by his hips, lifting him off the ground and presses him close. Sam holds in the gasp and melts in his grip, breathing in warmth and security; a turn of events is always dangerous, he has to be modest. He snuggles closer and takes what little comfort he can, the underlining panic pulling at him but he shuts it out, presses his face against Castiel's chest, wishing he could just dissolve. The covers are warm and soft, Sam wants to stay a little longer.

“Sweet boy, have you learned your lesson?” Castiel's voice is gravely and deep as always but there's something loving and forgiving about it and it leaves Sam beaming and wanting to cry. A hand brushes his chestnut hair from his face and blue eyes stare into his fox-slant ones. The man's expecting an answer and Sam responds like his life depends on it, all desperate and quick to answer. He doesn't miss the floor. He misses Castiel. Sam's going to prove it with every word and action he's got because Castiel's kindness is always rare and quick to run. Sam's scared of the loaded words but he knows he has no choice, so he bites the bullet and keeps his head down. He doesn't know how he should respond, he's already dodged one today—should have kept his head down, stupid Sam—and he's not about to make it two strikes, you're out. Sam stutters out his apology, all sincere and shaky, his voice unused in his throat.

“Y-yes, Castiel,” Sam pleads.

Castiel doesn't respond and with a jolt, Sam's heart rabbits in his throat.

“P-please, I have,” Sam promises.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!” Sam's all begging and tears now.

“I'm sorry, Castiel, I won't do it agai-”

Castiel holds up a hand and stares down at Sam and the boy wants to curl in on himself. His eyes widen. He won't go back to the basement, he can't. It's horrible down there and Sam's tears stain his face, hazel eyes pained and terrified when the man runs the back of his hand down the boy's jaw once more. Sam hiccups, not daring to say anything else in fear of persecution and punishment. A minute goes by, then two and Castiel's still silent as if in thought, the boy trembling in his grip. A hand runs through his hair and Sam lets him, what else can he do? He desperately needs Castiel's forgiveness, his love. The hole where his heart is oozing black blood again and he can't patch it up himself, too painful to pull back the old bandages and look. He's so sorry and he just wants to go back to Before, where Castiel holds him and kisses him and loves him. Sam squeezes his eyes close, breathing painfully. There's a whimper on his lips but he holds it close because it's all he got now.

“Tell me what you've done wrong.” Castiel's all ice and all calm.

“I resisted and fought back,” Sam admits, miserable and defeated.

“Why would you do that?” The questions are steel barbs on Sam's heart.

“Because I was afraid,” Sam mutters out and it's barely a whisper. He turns his head, face burning in shame. He shouldn't have been afraid, he shouldn't have resisted. He needs a wishing well right now and he doesn't want to wish it well. Sam knows he should just take his punishment but after weeks of being ignored, treated like less than nothing, he jumps the first forgiveness train with a kind of instinctual need. He desperately needs Castiel's touch, Castiel's love because no one will love him. It's the first time in days that he's had skin to skin contact and Sam never wants to let go. He waits for Castiel's eyes to cloud over, count every sin he's committed just to cross them off. The silence is awkward and cold and the boy's all fear and all panic. He tries to hold it in but more tears break and fall down his face, his fingers shaking around Castiel's arm. Sam breathes nervously, waiting.

“You are afraid because you don't trust me,” Castiel explains like he would to a six year old. “I thought you'd understand by now, Sam. Tell me why you don't need to be afraid.” Sam's thoughts freeze in his throat and he chokes on it, slender body shaking with exertion, ankle chain too loud when he shifts. Hysteria, that's the foul taste in his mouth. Strong hands are running down his body now and the boy's eyes are blank and confused. He focuses on the task at hand and tries to produce any words to save his soul. Nothing comes out and Sam panics, trying again. He shouldn't take up too much of Castiel's time, he can't. He can be good, he can be obedient. Castiel's eyes are cutting and Sam jolts up, finally answering hopelessly. He chokes on his words when Castiel's hands run down his collarbone and across his chest, rolling a nipple on his fingertips.

“I-I don't n-need to be afraid because I can't f-fight it.”

“Why can't you fight it?”

“B-because I'm helpless.”

“And why are you helpless?”

“Because it's all of you and none of me.”

“So just trust, because you cannot do anything else.”

“Yes, Castiel.”

Sam gasps when Castiel pinches the sensitive flesh but Sam's too smart to squirm or move. Some days, Castiel wants him to writhe and beg but the boy doesn't know about today. The vulnerability of his gasps are already enough of a mistake, but he can't help himself. He misses this, craves it and Sam tries his best to keep it to himself. A hand wanders downwards and Sam bites back a whimper of anticipation as it goes lower and lower. Finally, there's a pressure at his ass and Sam sucks in a breath. Two fingers pushes in and Sam shifts his weight—should have prepared, stupid Sam—when another plunges in, splitting his hole on three fingers. He's still loose. The pressure has been missed and Sam finds himself more sensitive than ever, it's a miracle he's made it all these weeks without any help. Finally, four fingers are in and Sam can't hold back his sounds as he tries to arch his back but a hand keeps him pinned firm against Castiel's strong chest. The man works him open, unraveling with every single second.

“You can be good, can't you?” Castiel whispers in his ear, the growl laced with lust and carnal desire. Sam shivers as a jolt goes up his spine. The hands retract and Sam is left empty and wanting but not before long, something plastic is inserted and the flood of lube is cold and uncomfortable, leaking right back out. The fingers join it once more to stop the flow, opening him up roughly now, surging in and out without a care but Sam doesn't mind. Sam doesn't understand why Castiel even bothered to prep (probably to make it feel better for himself) but he's so, so thankful and in love anyways. Castiel is kind and the boy will do anything to taste that kindness again. A finger rubs against a certain bundle of nerves and Sam whimpers. Castiel chuckles and repeats his motion, drawing out gasps and moans. Sam's face flushes as Castiel drives his finger home, eliciting another sharp, breathless gasp. He keens when Castiel changes to scissoring motions, tries his best to stay still. Castiel calls him a sweet boy and he nearly forgets to answer.

“Y-yes, Castiel!”

“Why don't you show me?” The fingers withdraw, leaving Sam cold and alone.

Sam knows what he is, has known it for a while now: a whore, a slut and everything in between. Castiel is his world, the kind of man his father would have pointed at and told him with a disappointed grimace, “Son, that's the kind of man you should grow up to be.” Because you can never be like someone like him. You're too girly. Too much leg, not enough muscle. Kicked puppy eyes. Always whining, bitching about _something_ , anything. Castiel isn't a freak. He's all kinds of disheveled arrogance and impassiveness. Handsome too. Everything that Sam's father wanted, so the boy shifts on his knees and swallows his cock. Blue eyes stare and Sam doesn't mind, needs the attention as he puts his mouth to good work, too dirty sounds escaping as he bobs his head up and down. His eyes are half-lidded and content as he continues, his legs spread by the knee forced between them. The whine dies in his throat when Castiel grabs him, some kind of impatience showing and drives it home once more. Sam's in love and it's all kinds of violent blooms and rainbow skies.

The pace picks up, too quickly and Sam's choking on everything and nothing at all. The man pulls him all the way down until he's knocking for the Undertaker. Drives him up, a hand in his hair, tearing hisses and saliva from his throat. Each motion has Sam a little closer to vomiting the absolute nothing he's eaten in the last day and a half but he's going to do it anyways. Guts, lungs, intestines and all, he'll offer it to Castiel if it makes the man happy. The pressure on his hair has his eyes watering as he used as nothing more than a toy for Castiel's pleasure. Sam coughs, splutters and whimpers around the girth, hands weak and useless at his side. He's too obedient to fight, already learned his lesson (more than) once—can't go back—and he learns his place yet again, lets the driving motions push and pull at his mind. All of Castiel, none of Sam. All of Castiel, none of Sam. All of Cast-

“-anyone ever told you, Sammy?”

The nickname is a mockery to a Before he doesn't remember.

“I could beat you, sell you and even kill you.”

“And you won't say a thing, will you?”

With one violent motion, Castiel jams Sam all the way down, holding him beneath as he watches the boy shake and cry, tears of exertion forming on his face. He's curious how far he can go, never lets Sam go. With fingers fisted into chestnut hair, he waits until he's pulling up moans and frantic pleas, until that morphs into a writhing mess, into useless hands clawing at bed sheets. He knows the boy _can't_ (if he can't he has to learn to can), and takes that a step further, until the struggling become jolts, uncoordinated spasms, lack of oxygen burning holes. They quickly die down though as Sam catches his mistake, stops his struggling (do not fight because helplessness, because trust). He can't respire, so he closes his eyes. Finally the tears break and run down pale features once more. His heart is going to explode. He might die here. He's so full of panic. Coins in his jar is running low. Sam doesn't need no wishing well.

One the breaking point, the man pulls him off. Sam gasps for air, choking and sobbing, racking and coughing up nothing. His eyes are wide, his mouth twitching into a doleful, pained smile. Sam's jaw aches as he wipes at his mouth unsuccessfully, laying on top of the man he loves so much, sobbing into strong chest because he can do nothing else. A gentle hand reaches up and pats his cheek, Castiel caressing the redness there. It becomes a shade darker when Castiel suddenly turns the love into a whip, a brutal crack splitting the air. He backhands the boy because he disobeys yet again—stupid Sam, should have more trust—and Sam knows it, doesn't try to stop the second and third blow, nor the fourth. The four crucial seconds he shouldn't have been fighting, he makes up for it in broken heart. Sam goes on with how sorry he is, how he'll do better as Castiel finally holds him close again, all loving and perfect. The man hushes him, tells him that all is forgiven; instinct is instinct, after all, everything can be trained in and out with a firm hand. Sam snuggles close, with cheeks redder, heart bigger, mind slower and body needier. He repeats his mantra of love again, of how much he loves, loves, loves! Loves the man named Castiel.

He carries Sam off the bed bridal style; anything but gentle, it draws up bruises.

“We're going to try this again, Sam.” Castiel mutters, a low croon in his ear, “and this time you're going to show me what I want to see, won't you, sweet boy?”

Sam is still afraid but he nods his head jerkily, his jaw still aching and what other choice does he have? He can't say no. He'll be risking abandonment, risking solitary confinement (hates it with every inch) and he does want to make Castiel happy, make Castiel proud. Sam hates fire, the candles terrify him, bringing up memories of campfire, hellfire, house fire. Mostly house fire. The first time Castiel tells him not to move when the candles disappear from his vision, the only thing Sam can think of is not to please Castiel, it's to run and flee and hide. Duck for cover. Panic. Panic. _Panic._ Eventually though, he never escapes in both senses of the universe and the man wrestles his malnourished (Castiel says it's to watch his physique) body down, beats him black and blue and thrown him down the basement. The boy, sobbing the whole time, does it not his usual silent tears, but the kind of bitch crying with snot and screaming bloody murder and mascara running down cheeks. Not tears of love or joys but tears of absolute fear, something that he'll have to go through again too soon. Sam exhales a breath of defeat. All of Castiel, none of Sam, a blessing and a curse.

“Yes, Castiel.” His voice is small even to himself.

_I love you,_ he mouths.

 

Castiel never kisses him.


	2. His Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the other half of the tags come in.

Sam finds himself ten toes down, unable to move an inch. The bindings are tight and uncomfortable when he tests them half-heartedly. The boy can't even try to breathe, in fear of persecution as Castiel paces around him with something like sick fascination on his face. A kind of calm before the storm that's terrifying. Sam feels so small in his presence as Castiel just keeps going like an angry god, waiting on sins just to cross them off. The boy swallows dry, waits for the inevitable. His heart is going to explode somewhere here or there but that isn't the main concern. His fear is an animal, unable to act and only there to react. He loves, he fears but more than anything, he begs for forgiveness because he knows he won't be able to comply with the silence Castiel demands. He will cry, he will hyperventilate and most certainly he will plead for an end. Sam can already see this playing out in his head, his screaming and writhing—red, yellow, green, don't matter—and Castiel growing increasingly irritated with his vocalizations. The man will do so much worse than just promises. There is no leeway, only damnation.

Sam begins to cry.

“Sweet boy,” Castiel demands. “Do not cry.”

So he has to stop crying.

“The restraints are here to help you learn,” the man promises, a gentle hand running down his back and Sam sucks in a breath, unable to let it go. “We wouldn't want a repeat of last time, do we?” No, most certainly not though he's going to struggle and scream anyways. Fire is something Sam's always been apprehensive about. It terrifies him (a little) more than Castiel's wrath and he hates himself for it. His body's already going through hell and back, Sam doesn't think his mind can handle the same. He can still smell the smoke and burning flesh from years ago. It takes everything and leaves nothing in its wake. Poverty and no more books. Big brother goes drinking and fists go swinging. Daddy falling off the wagon. No wonder he runs. Keeps running from everything. Sam just wishes for someone to desperately love and be loved by. He's a doll thrown across the ground too many times, battered and used and cherished when Castiel picks him up. It's better than being package-sealed, air-tight, Sam decides.

He makes up his mind there with a, “I love you, Castiel.”

Because the “Cas” he meets that rainy night is long gone.

The “I know,” comes just as easily and the man lights a red candle.

The burning stick comes closer and closer until it disappears from his vision. Sam flinches all the way down, the involuntary jolt trapped beneath as he hits leather. The boy's breathing picks up and he's choking on just air. Sam closes his eyes, shuts them tight when the wax meets skin, searing little holes into his back and mind. They remind him of embers. It makes the pain so much worse than it really is and he hisses out before clamping the sound back down, angry tears never daring to break. The hyperventilation starts around the same time his mind runs for the hills. Sam can't even think, can't even hear what Castiel is saying because it is so loud, the firestorm crashing down on him, snapping wood and set aflame. Sam clenches his teeth until he thinks he might be chipping them. The hiccups come and go. The fire spreads. His back. His thighs. His ass. His mind. All red, everything red. It leaves him all alone and in the dark. He calls for Castiel, not for him to stop but for the man to save his soul. Sam tries to be, tries to make Castiel happy. He's so goddamn terrified of the monsters under his bed and the basement crawling with dust. Echoes and voices, his dead father won't stop talking.

“Relax, Sam,” comes a distant, gravely voice.

“I-I'm trying,” comes the just as distant call.”

“I know you are, sweet boy,” it's reassurance, loaded.

“C-Castiel, I-I'm so s-scared,” a confession of blind faith.

“Try not to be,” comes the cold whisper.

“I don't know how,” admittance, shame, guilt, damnation.

“Try harder.” It's nothing short of the law.

There's movement behind him as Castiel moves between his legs, the _snick_ of metal belt sharp and demanding. Sam flinches, then flinches again as another drop of hot wax cascades down his thighs. His pained gasp gets cut up into little pieces and he slumps, not crying because that's what Castiel wants, playing deer in headlights just _because._ He breathes in frantically, unable to find his lungs fast enough. The fire's in his stomach, creeping upwards. He's so terribly miserable, buried up to his nose in anguish. It turns, twisting his intestines into a pretty red bow, stitches his kidneys together until they're side by side. It's a corset pulled too tight and the desperate whimper finally drops. Once it comes, it won't stop coming and Sam can't hold himself from babbling, pleading on deaf ears. Castiel just never stops, keeps going until the pressure reams him into two. With one motion, Castiel sinks his cock all the way to the base and Sam hangs on to the breaking point. If he makes any noise, it's going to morph into an unpleasant screech. The boy feels full, a placid made of smoke. He misses this, the pain he yields, the pleasure that Castiel so gratefully sets up. The fractures on his mind.

He forgets how much he physically needs this.

The boy might be giving the man a god-complex.

Through the pain and haze, he finally starts to really feel the shaft buried deep in his ass. It doesn't know the goodness, the hit, just forward, back, forward, back. Dirty and wrong, frowned upon in more than just fifty states, there's no denying that; taboo's never been so good. Bruising hips and flushed face, Sam keeps staring at the wall, saliva running through his lips. He loses himself a little more every time—none of Sam, all of Castiel—but that, that's the drug that makes him float on cloud nine. Not the sex, not the pain. Sam's not a masochist, despite what Castiel seems to think. The impatient hand brings Sam back down and he blinks slowly when Castiel grabs him from behind, running across his throat. There's a butterfly knife in his hand. Sam needs to be actively participating, so he does. He puts on a show for Castiel though the arousal he had earlier this morning is missing. He begins to moan and beg and whimper and scream on command for his life until this is sure as hell the way he's going to go out; violently devastation, a bloom of carnage. His face, wet with tears and snot and sweat and exhaustion, pulls through. He declares his undying love for Castiel once more.

“Love the way you hurt,” Castiel growls and it's a confession good as any. Sam is so much in love, he's so smitten and he begins to cry. His heart is all floaty, his mind displaced somewhere above. The fucking starts to feel good, with the constant abuse on his prostate, the closeness of it all. It doesn't make sense that Castiel's fucking him, just makes so much sense that it feels like a little piece of paradise. Sam writhes, trying to push back to taste that sweet friction once more but Castiel doesn't let him, driving into him mercilessly. Sam's one-hundred percent rope burns. There's a cloud and he's feather-light and trying to fly. Castiel holds him down to earth like the whore he is. Because whores don't deserve angels or celestials. Sam doesn't even get the chance to try to get too close to the sun when he jolts, a wretched sound torn from his lips, long and throaty and sinful. The spot that Castiel finds earlier is never let go as Castiel fucks like a man needing air. The forces are relentless until the pleasure fades to pain once more. Sam screams, writhes, begs and pleads—more, more there's nothing else but more—as he's pounded from behind. He feels like a dying engine. If he didn't value his tongue, the curses would be just as black as the smoke from the broken car.

“Love you! Love you, Castiel!” Sam all but screams.

“I know you do!”

Someone jacks up the volume and Sam pulls his head from the water.

“SAY IT YOU WHORE, SAY YOU LOVE ME!” Castiel roars, the knife dropping to the floor with a _clunk,_ closes his hands around Sam's windpipe and begins to crush. Seeing the boy's face in all its pretty tears and proclamations, it stirs the arousal right down to his core. This boy, this sick fuck of human, this _slut_ is doing things he can't see at all. How dare this boy try, as if he has a say in anything at all? Rough hands leave markings across the boy's neck until they're red and angry with the pressure crashing down, a punishment and a warning. Castiel can't wait to see how far he can push Sam again before he shatters and breaks and lands on his knees. All sick fascinations and mind games, it's a carousel ride that just keeps going 'round and 'round and 'round. Castiel's never giving Sam up until the day he puts him down. Why he shared, the man will never know but he sure as hell isn't going to make the same mistake. This is something of his own, something outside of his work and business, a personal investment. Castiel intends to keep in that way until the day the cops put a bullet through his brain-

“-AND NOW HERE I AM, HOLDING THE GUTS IN MY SLASHED STOMACH IN, WONDERING WHY AND HOW,” Castiel's restraint snaps in two and he snaps Sam's face up to meet his, harsh blue eyes dangerous and cruel in the dark. The first strike is hard, the second striker harder and by the time Castiel's hand begins to burn, Sam stops trying to struggle. The rhythm keeps going, hips colliding, and Castiel takes the pleasure for himself, Sam stealing what he can get with bloody nose, split lips. Still, the boy won't stop mumbling the words that damn him: _love you, love you, love you._ Because Sam is a Freak and Castiel wants to play. The man's intents were as handsome as his features at first, of charity and God's will (or so he's been told) but Sam shoves too hard and now he's standing in line with nothing more than a number on the back of his neck. He draws in a man of God and he rolls with the a Demon in man's bed. Sam knows, with all of bruising heart and bruising lungs that he's with the shell of a man he loves. Still, he cannot let go because the hell fire's too strong.

“YOU DROVE ME DOWN THIS PATH, SAM!” Damnation, once more.

“YOU RUINED ME WITH YOUR WORDS!” He's calling.

“YOU WANTED TO PLAY THIS GAME!” He's calling _hard._

“YES, YES, YES!” Because what else can Sam say? It's true, he just wanted some love to fill his empty chest. Everything that Castiel verbalizes must be real because his treatment was born of wrong, of rage, or his freakish nature and all hell in between. The boy is so thankful that the man doesn't leave, abandon him the way his father does, beat him the way his father does because this—this is passion. No one understands but Sam reads it as clear as day. Thunderclouds crackle overhead. Greying skies, neon rainbows, no more air and the increasing push, his body craving this, swings with the motion that compels. Nothing will set him free right but this clicks as hard as Castiel's belt. The angel of man falls because of him and it floods Sam with a kind of fuzzy warmth that leaves him wrecked. He's both ashamed and more than a little elated. Perhaps, it was meant to be. Perhaps, Castiel is just as filthy as him, not that he'll ever kiss and tell. The boy knows his place, has known it for time. He is nothing more than an object of pleasure, of a hit-and-run high. He's okay with it though, because Castiel has learned to love.

The parasite that eats Castiel inside out; it's Sam, who can't seem to let go.

Then there's the man, who chooses to feed his demon.

The pain is a ride, sending shivers down Sam's spine as he lays there, limp and panting. His face is numb, blood leaking from his nose as he tries his hardest to stay awake. Castiel is still relentless, a monster that keeps taking and taking and taking until there's nothing left of the boy. Every drive inward is a spark of black eye and every pull is empty head space. Sam's descending into madness and he brings Castiel with him. The man growls, all low and possessive as his pacing begins to stutter and Sam realizes he's closing out. The boy encourages the man with high whines and throaty vocalizations, sweat and blood clinging to his face as Castiel wraps his arms around his neck; one snap and it'll be all over. Hot breath is on his neck and Sam drinks it in, doesn't let that go too. The salty stench of blood, sweat and sex (tears), ferments in the air, leaving Sam's head spinning. Both of Castiel's hands are on his hips now, driving and driving and driving the goddamn message home. His hips must be bruising. It makes Sam feel so freakishly in love. None of Sam, all of Castiel.

“P-please,” Sam chokes out.

“What is it, sweet boy?”

“C-can you k-kiss me?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Please?”

“Maybe when you earn it.”

Castiel shoves himself deeper and deeper and one last time, stilling—ecstasy spiking from the pained expression on Sam's face—groaning above the shaking boy as he unravels, the high sugar sweet and he drinks it all in. The beautiful writhing mess to the marks he makes, it's a thrill. Castiel runs a finger down the lacerations almost gently, eliciting a wince as he lazily drives his hips back and forth, earning tormented moans that can curdle milk. Castiel knows that it's beyond stimulation now, must be terribly painful for Sam. That's too bad. Sam feels the gush of white-hot liquid and he closes his eyes, the sigh that he's been dangling all this time finally drops. He's still hard and wanting but Sam knows that he can't begin to compromise so he doesn't. He feels so full but he's almost certain he hasn't eaten in two days. Sam's shaking, fresh tears staining his face as Castiel reaches down to caress the pitiful mess. The touches are gentle, heavenly and Sam finds himself leaning into it. He doesn't need anything else, just this moment on repeat. He's happy that Castiel's happy. He's happy that it's none of him and all of Castiel. He's so, so joyful that he almost forgets the painful presence between his legs.

Sam still wants a kiss but he's willing to settle.

After all, his pain brings Castiel pleasure.

 

...

 

Waking up is a bitch.

Sam's pretty close to consciousness when his mind pulls under without a warning. He's not asleep with the way everything aches and how air seems far away. He must be awake but everything's hazy and there's a weight around him, keeping him safe. Feels like Castiel, probably is. Then, it's the hit of airy bliss and he's floating so high above. He recognizes after his mind finally sinks through the mud. It's the drugs that Castiel promises and Sam's too thankful to say thank you. He wants to drift away but he frowns in concentration when he can't. He wets his lips slightly, staying silent and aware when the weight around him shifts and bring him closer. Judging by the room temperature, they're back upstairs where the light and windows are. Sam unravels, muscles losing their fight as he stares straight up ahead, breath sweet in his throat. There's a weariness to him, a tired that can't be slept off so he doesn't, tries to look around though he doesn't really want to. Look both ways before crossing. Don't let hell's door hit on its way out. Inhale, exhale, shake and repeat.

“C-Castiel....” Sam trails off fearfully, unable to move.

“What is it sweet boy?” Comes a sleep rough voice and the boy's heart rabbits.

“There's a d-demon i-in my chest and I can't get it ou-out.”

“The drugs do seem to have some form of hallucination property.”

“N-no, I—it fe-feels different,” Sam swears, slightly hysterical but one glance at blue eyes, he knows that he won't be arguing anymore. Castiel comes before the highest demon and Sam still wants to live, be in love. His feelings and words are well worth the sacrifice and the words that he's been harboring, Sam sinks it. It plummets through the murky, black waters and slips through oblivion. Sam relates as he paws at the empty hole where his heart should be, waiting desperately to be reignited. It only sparks so often that he constantly needs it, the drugs and pills and painkillers are only a sub-reality built from rainbow skies and glass domed greenhouses. Sam begins to shake and the man reaches over, a hand on bony shoulders and drags him close in reassurance. The boy preens on the inside, with this little victorious purr and chirp hybrid. It's a fitting sound too when it turns into a whimper, drawing up terror and a need to be sorry. Strong hands leave lightly bruising marks down Sam's shoulder and he tries his best to stop shaking, gulping air furiously. The demon won't let him go.

“Do tell, Sam,” Castiel says in amusement but it's anything but; honey-sweet trap.

“I-it's nothing,” Sam manages a shy smile. “I-I'm sorry, Castiel.”

“All is forgiven, sweet boy.”

 

...

 

_Two hours later_

“Sam,” Castiel's warning is silky and dangerous but Sam can't heed before his mind reacts, reeling in terror. He backs up, hazel eyes wide as he hits the wall behind him. There's something in his eyes when he screams out in anguish, unable to keep it hush. The riding crop is raised above Castiel's head and Sam shakes his head furiously, tears falling down his face as his hands cover his head. The man makes a sudden movement and Sam yelps like he's already been hit, recoiling on himself further, until he's sliding down to the floor, trying to dissolve through the floorboards. He can't stop the whimpers and whines from his throat, nor how shaky his body is or the way he can't even fucking breathe, wheezing out breaths like a dying engine. There's only one place for cars like that. The junkyard. Sam doesn't want to die but he can't obey either. Castiel is running low on patience and Sam bares his throat, a primal sign for surrender. Sam's coughing, choking on his own saliva as he tastes his own tears in his mouth but Castiel just keeps approaching like a predator on prey.

“What did I tell you about obeying?” Cold hand grabs onto chestnut hair and Castiel hauls the boy to his feet, Sam writhing and pleading under the grip. Blue eyes study the helpless creature, the boy under his thumb and Castiel blinks, unimpressed. Sam sobs silently, as he eyes the riding crop with sorrow and loathing. He hates it so much, it's not that he's not accustomed to pain, no. He's an old friend. It's just that riding crop, especially. Too many barbed memories. The first time Sam resisted Castiel, the man gives him a show. Whips one of the other boys with this crop—he can tell by the black leather corset design down the handle—until he's bloody and broken. No begging. No pleading. No mercy. The boy dies slowly, first from blood loss, then from hunger and finally, the infection stops his heart all together. He's guilty. He doesn't want to be second and the more animistic part of his mind wins out and he flails and writhes against Castiel's hold again, not caring that he's hurting himself. No, nothing good. He needs to be in love. He needs out. No, no _no._

“You do as you are told,” Castiel whispers, wrenching the boy onto the floor as he crashes, bones against the hardwood.

“You do not question me,” the man continues, grabbing the rope from the drawer with one hand and he binds Sam's hands together, pulling it taunt.

“You do not think,” he hisses out, all venom and all bite, shattering the last part of Sam's heart that can think.

“You do not resist,” Castiel proceeds, pinning Sam down with one knee and a hand on the scruff of his neck, the way a vet would to a spooked cat.

“And when you can't....” Castiel raises the riding crop over his head once more, black gleaming demonically in the dim light.

“You try harder until you _can._ ”

_Crack._

“You do not beg for forgiveness.”

_Crack._

“You wait until I give it to you.”

_Crack._

“Pl-please....”

“Do you not learn, Sam?”

“I c-can't!”

Castiel blinks.

_Crack._

Sam screams, voice hoarse and wounded. He screams until he's going to pass out, even though he's running his throat through needles and pins. And the small part of himself thanks Castiel for letting him because if this is one of the times that the man wills him to be quiet, the boy will snap before he can try. Sam sobs and cries, all dirty and down to earth and broken and ugly and human. He whimpers and begs at first as the lacerations flake skin and blood, until the crop is stained red but eventually either exhaustion or acceptance wins out and his head slumps and he dry sobs into the floor, not even trying to struggle. The high whine dies to a low and gutted one as it becomes the only intelligible stream of thought through his pain-addled mind. He hiccups and rubs his wrists and ankles raw, angry red lines surfacing as hazel eyes zone out in a far away, his body moving with every swing of the crop. He's a spectator, outside of his own head as Castiel brings it down over and over again. Sam can't even beg for mercy as he prays, watching the homicide unfold in 2160p quality.

Lost himself, trapped inside the devil's den.

Down, down, _down_ in his hell.

He doesn't even know the exact moment Castiel stops swinging. Just that he's in hell and he needs desperately an angel, who will save him, burn his wings hellfire black just for Sam. Who will pull him from the its depths and fly him to a faraway land. Sam's looking through water when he breathes, bottles full of bubbles and ATM machines. He wants all of the things, one dollar and twenty five cent sugared hearts, two dollar packet of gummy love. Everything fades away until Serotonin, where are you going?! Footsteps fade away and deep down, Sam knows he should feel sorry, pray for forgiveness but he really can't, his heart hanging by a thread. It's already a bloody mass, unrecognizable as the boy holds it close but even then, it's getting smaller and smaller until one day, it'll shrivel up and become nothing, nothing at all. A door slams shut behind Sam as blood pools out beneath him like massive red wings. There's his angel, he thinks. Not the angel with black wings and blue eyes. Not the one who holds his love. Not the one. Hurts, hurts, _it hurts._

Sam knows the only choice he has is to wait.

And be so terribly sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't think of anything to say. I guess if you enjoy angst and this style of writing, try checking out my other SPN work: So Happy in Misery.


	3. ATTENTION

ATTENTION-----

I am very sad. I had chapters three and parts of four written but my computer chose to crash at that exact moment, killing itself. When I rebooted it, everything was replaced with “#” and no matter what I did, it won't come the hell back. This is caused when the document doesn't have enough time to save onto the hard drive before it is interrupted (9k words!!). Because I seem to have problems with commitment, I have the WiFi turned off so I can focus. That means doesn't automatically save for me. I am very sad, very annoyed and above all else, disappointed because I won't be able to close out the story for you all, which was something I looked forward to. And no, I will not be “finishing” this, seeing that I'm still slightly tilted. It's just a pain to rewrite and even if it's in my head, it will never be as descriptive or passionate as my first go around so that means it's not worth your time to see. So once again, I am sorry readers.

However, on the bright side, you know what this means. It opens windows to new ideas as well as new writing and I already have half a plan mapped out. Now, I'm just going to let my mind wander and see which horrific direction it's going to take me in. I am not confident in my writing if I'm being honest and I constantly have doubts about the “style” choice. I don't KNOW if this type of writing is too...heavy/descriptive? Let me know, I guess. I've always craved a simpler writing style but with the way my brain behaves, it's all about the emotions and stray thoughts and symbolism and play on words. That's something I can never forget and let go, I just need pointers on how to make it better. That's why feedback (shameless coughing) is so important and I do intend on bringing better, more exciting pieces to you all. I'm passionate and exploring all these cruelties with sick fascination, tell me which ones you want to see.

 

How the story should have ended:

Because I know at least one person is curious.

Chapter Three (his denial): 

After Sam's punishment in chapter three, he's thrown into the basement to relive his hell. However, this time it's different from before. Instead of seeking the forgiveness he so desperately “needs,” he loses the will to live. For a time, he just floats along but before that, there's a scene where he jacks off. He jacks off because the basement lacks basic human intimacy. He can't get it up and that's a symbolism for losing what he values most: Castiel. Later though, when he finally does work it up, it's a pact, a promise that he will get Castiel back at all costs, contradicting his ideology at the start of chapter three. He suffers and there's more symbolism about bound wings and angels. Finally, after X amount of time, Castiel comes to his rescue but Sam is so exhausted and so confused he doesn't even know how to show well...anything. He's brought upstairs once more where Castiel bathes him and cleans him up. Something extraordinary happens and Castiel leans in close, kissing him (“and they meet, lips on lips, tearing each other down piece by piece”). This is where Stockholm Syndrome comes into play once again and Sam reaches the conclusion that love must be violent to be love and this, this is not what he envisions. He's afraid of the gentle nature because he's never seen it. Then they fuck but for the first time ever indicated, Sam tells Castiel that he consents. Castiel asks him if he had not been consenting the times before, knowing that Sam can't answer without bringing his wrath. However, Sam is smart and tells Castiel that “I do not mind when you take what is yours.” I think what needs to get through is that even though Sam “gives consent,” he can't actually be giving it. He is underage. He is not in the right mind. This Castiel we know is abusive, manipulative and knows how to play the game.

Chapter Four (his truth):

More sex, manipulation and torture. Eventually, through a mistake that Castiel makes, he blows his cover and his house is searched. Castiel is arrested and held while all the victims are rescued but it's not what it seems. All the things he says about other boys? It's all in Sam's head and he never distinguished reality from fear. So when he asks the cop what happened to the others and gets the response of “there was no others,” there's a disconnect. He never says anything after, assuming that Castiel killed the boys. Sam panics, shuts down completely and won't let any of it go. First, he's joyful that he's free but that soon becomes fear. He's left to do what he wants and how he wants. He's allowed to make his own choices down to how he dresses and what he eats and that scares the shit out of Sam. He doesn't know what to do. Sam cries and wallops in self-loath, self-worth issues and misery. Eventually, everything comes back. He refuses to testify against Castiel but because he's the only victim, there are no other sources. He claims that Castiel loved him and what they had was consensual. None of the arguments from everyone else gets through. Sam's father is phoned but upon later inspection, it turns out that John Winchester's dead in his own home because of a stroke. His body is found, rotting and foul; another symbolism. Sam is put in a foster care system and goes to school. He gets good grades, is modest and keeps what happens behind him. Inside though, he misses the man who “loves” him. He never hears from his big brother.

Chapter Five (in the end):

This is also apart of chapter four but I had ideas on splitting because chapter four was getting way too long and out of hand. Fast-forward a year or three, Sam is “officially a consenting adult.” He realizes that no charges were ever held against Castiel because of what he said and he doesn't mind. He just wants to keep moving on with his life but when he sees a man, oh so familiar, with blue eyes and darker hair, his panic morphs into exhilaration and he believes that this is his second chance. The good walls he tries to build up comes crumbling down. He doesn't see the limp in Castiel's leg, his greying hair, the obvious signs of drug abuse, the once-all-powerful-man's imperfections. He goes willingly, leaving behind a hopeful future even though he never realizes that he's worth more. Castiel and Sam hold hands, madly in love but when the camera turns, the two end pictures are much different. One is where Sam is cuffed to the basement floor, screaming, begging for Castiel to hurt him, to love him, to show him anything. He repeats once again, “I love you, Castiel.” As always, Castiel responds with a, “I know, sweet boy.” A mockery, knowing full well that Sam is no longer a boy, the boy he ruins. The second is Sam holding a gun to Castiel's head but he's already dead, committed suicide minutes before. There's one bullet through the brain but empty shell casings line the floor like flowers. Sam shoots him even after he's dead, face contorted in unwanted guilt and rage as the blood and sinews fly. Screaming, he claws and rips at the dead body for what he makes him do. For what Castiel turns him into. How the man's not even here to repent. Finally, the closing shot: sirens wail in the background but for once, Sam's head is clear and there's no more horrible ringing. He laughs as he's dragged towards the backseat of a police car, the cuffs around his wrist all too familiar to his days with Castiel. He laughs because he never won and never will. The media calls him a victim and a murderer. Dean spits on Sam's grave but leaves a white lily as an afterthought. He regrets not talking to his brother after Castiel's exposition because he was ashamed. Now, he's ashamed of himself. “Not a story of Bonnie and Clyde but blood and sinew fly, with white lilies holding up the light.”

Sam never stated his innocence.

 

Annnnddddd that's how it would have ended. I hope, throughout our journey together as author and reader, I made you feel at least one gut-wrenching emotion. If I did, then I did my job. It's just such a shame this crap tin of a computer had to screw me over. Tell me what you think and be sure to leave a kudo and a comment! I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments as well as what you'd like to see next. Also, it might just be me but as I wrote out about what should have happened, I feel so, uh, ancient. Like a month just passed. Odd, but cool. See you all soon!


End file.
